Chapter 9 Camilla
After Renato leaves, I sit perfectly still, letting the reality of my situation crystallize into something manageable. The leather chair creaks beneath me, and I notice how the afternoon light catches particles of dust suspended in the air, each one floating aimlessly like my scattered thoughts.
It's real.
An auction. International buyers. One to two weeks to prepare.
I need to plan a strategy and do it fast.
My fingers trace the ornate carvings along the edge of the writing desk as I pull myself forward, the wood smooth and cool under my touch. I select a sheet of expensive stationery, the paper so thick it has weight, and pick up the fountain pen.
If I'm going to survive this, I need to think like the businesswoman I never had the chance to become. Assets, liabilities, opportunities, threats.
I write "Assets" at the top of the page, the pen scratching across the paper in dark blue ink.
My intelligence, which he's already acknowledged.
My appearance, which commands premium prices from premium buyers.
My bloodline—the Colombo name still carries weight despite everything.
His interest, since he's intrigued by me specifically.
And time, one to two weeks to influence the situation.
Under "Liabilities," I note my circumstances: no money, no outside resources, both families have apparently abandoned me.
I'm constrained by physical barriers, locked rooms with their heavy brass mechanisms, armed guards whose footsteps echo in the corridors below.
His reputation depends on following through with the auction.
For "Opportunities," I press the pen harder against the paper. His fascination with my responses. Auction preparation requires his personal involvement. Buyers haven't been contacted yet. He gave me weapons and privacy—signs of respect, or perhaps trust.
Finally, under "Threats," the ink flows faster as my thoughts accelerate. The timeline is his choice, not mine. Other buyers may be worse than my current situation. If I miscalculate, things deteriorate quickly. His business reputation is on the line.
I set down the pen, the small clink of metal on wood breaking the silence. My analysis stares back at me from the cream-colored paper, each word a cold assessment of my reality.
The pattern is clear—everything hinges on Renato Vitiello himself.
He's both my greatest threat and my only potential ally. Which means my survival strategy has to center completely on him.
But how do you manipulate a man who traffics human beings for a living?
You don't.
I tear up my strategic analysis, the sound of ripping paper sharp and satisfying. The pieces flutter to the floor like broken promises before I gather them, crushing the fragments in my fist before throwing them into the trash can.
Back at the desk, I reach for another sheet but stop myself.
My hand hovers over the paper before I pull back, curling my fingers into my palm.
This list is too risky to commit to paper.
Instead, I rise and begin to move through the room, my bare feet silent on the Persian rug.
The thick wool cushions each step, a luxury I barely notice anymore.
I title the mental list "What I know about Renato Vitiello" and begin cataloguing.
He's intelligent, though not university educated.
He values quality over quantity, evident in everything from this villa's architecture to the weight of the silverware at dinner.
He respects strategic thinking, proven when he gave me weapons instead of taking them away.
He's business-focused but not purely ruthless.
He could have killed Lorenzo but chose psychological warfare instead.
My circuit of the room brings me to the full-length mirror. I stop, studying my reflection as if seeing a stranger. My hair needs brushing. Dark strands have escaped from behind my ears, framing my face in a way that's almost wild.
He watches me more than necessary. The midnight check, the extended conversation that serve no business purpose. And he's conflicted about something. I saw it in the tightness around his mouth when the families called me damaged goods.
The memory makes me press my palm flat against the mirror's cool surface, as if I could push through to some other version of this reality.
I replay his face when he delivered the news about the families' refusal.
Anger, yes. But not just at their defiance.
Something else flickered in those dark eyes, something that looked almost like. .. protection?
No.
That's wishful thinking. But there was definitely something personal in his reaction to their rejection.
I resume my pacing, but this time with purpose. Physical movement helps me think, grounds me in my body when my mind threatens to spiral.
The auction is a business transaction. Renato gets money, buyers get what they want, I get... whatever survival looks like in that world. But business transactions can be modified, terms can be changed, deals can be restructured.
What would make him want to restructure this particular deal?
The knock on my door comes two hours later. I've positioned myself deliberately, perched on the window seat with my legs tucked beneath me. The sun has shifted, casting long shadows across the floor that stretch toward the door like grasping fingers.
"Come in," I call, keeping my position, my voice steady despite my accelerating pulse.
Renato enters carrying a leather portfolio tucked under one arm and what looks like several photographs in his other hand.
He's changed into a different suit. Charcoal gray, with a subtle pinstripe that catches the light when he moves.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, still damp at the temples as if he's recently showered.
The scent of his cologne reaches me across the room—something with cedar and citrus notes, expensive and understated.
Every inch the successful businessman about to close an important deal.
"I thought you might want to understand exactly what you're preparing for," he says. His shoes, polished leather that gleams like black water, makes soft sounds against the hardwood as he crosses to the writing desk. He sets down the materials carefully, aligning the edges.
I unfold myself from the window seat, feeling the stretch in my legs after sitting still so long. "How thoughtful of you. What is this? Market research?"
"Something like that." He gestures to the chair. "Would you like to sit? This might take a while."
"I prefer to stand." I roll my shoulders back, feeling my spine straighten. "Unless you're ordering me to sit?"
His eyes, dark enough to be almost black in this light, flicker with something that might be amusement. A corner of his mouth twitches but doesn't quite smile. "No. Your choice."
Your choice.
Interesting phrase from a man who's removed all my choices.
The photographs are exactly what I expected, yet somehow worse for being real.
Expensive settings, marble floors, crystal chandeliers, walls covered in priceless art.
Beautiful women in elegant clothes, their smiles bright and hollow.
Men in tailored suits examining them like they’re studying a piece of art, hands clasped behind their backs or stroking their chins thoughtfully.
All very tasteful, very high-end. Nothing that would photograph badly in society magazines if you didn't know the context.
I pick up the first photograph, holding it delicately by the edges to avoid leaving fingerprints. The paper is glossy, expensive. "Who are these people?"
"Viktor Kozlov." Renato leans in, pointing to a silver-haired man in one photo.
His sleeve brushes against my arm, and I resist the urge to flinch away.
"Russian oil and aluminum. Appreciates intellectual conversation and classical music.
Tends to collect women who can hold their own in Moscow society. "
He reaches for the next photo, his fingers briefly overlapping mine on the glossy surface.
His skin is warm, dry. There's a scar across his knuckles I haven't noticed before.
"Ahmed Al-Rashid. Saudi construction and technology.
Traditional values but treats his acquisitions very well.
Full household staff, unlimited shopping, beautiful homes in three countries. "
The third photo shows a younger man with Italian features, sharp cheekbones, calculating eyes. "Franco Torretti. He's a broker, not a buyer. Represents clients across Europe and Asia. Professional, discreet, works with people who prefer anonymity."
I study each photograph carefully, holding them up to the light, turning them at angles. I'm noting details about their clothing. The cut of their suits, the expensive watches on their wrists. Their expressions are confident and entitled.
"What are you doing?" Renato asks. His voice is closer than I expected; he's moved to stand directly behind me.
"I'm learning about my potential future." I set down the photographs in a precise line across the desk, fingers lingering on each one. "Seems like a smart thing to do."
I turn to face him, forcing him to either step back or maintain the intimate proximity.
He chooses to hold his ground, and suddenly we're standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
I can see the individual lashes framing them, the slight crease between his brows, a tiny spot on his jaw he missed while shaving.
"These men," I say, keeping my voice low and steady despite my racing heart, "they'll expect me to be grateful. Submissive. Perhaps a little broken by the experience."
"Yes." The word is almost a breath, barely vocalized.
"And if I'm not? If I'm too composed, too confident? Does that hurt my value?"